


The Missing Key

by Eavenne



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bittersweet, Bonding, Character Development, F/M, Family Bonding, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Moving On, Nostalgia, Soul-Searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:13:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23130739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eavenne/pseuds/Eavenne
Summary: One of the keys on Austria's grand piano goes missing.The culprits: Hungary and Chibitalia. They've decided to make this a game, leaving clues around the house for him to find.And slowly but surely, Austria realises what he's truly been missing all along.
Relationships: Austria/Hungary (Hetalia), Austria/Switzerland (Hetalia), Holy Roman Empire/North Italy (Hetalia)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43





	The Missing Key

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set during the period where Hungary and Chibitalia are living in Austria's house with Holy Rome. As such, Austria thinks Chibitalia is female. To avoid confusion, I'm referring to Chibitalia as 'Italia' and with female pronouns in this fic.

Austria stared at his grand piano.

His grand piano stared back at him.

Austria took a breath, raised his head to glare at the ceiling, squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed them, and opened them again.

He looked down.

Unfortunately, his piano’s missing key failed to poof into existence.

* * *

He resisted the urge to slam the lid (he loved his piano too much for that).

But Austria was fuming, and Austria wanted an explanation now. He stormed around the room, his eyes darting angrily about; he thought he saw a curtain move and wheeled towards it, taking a deep breath in preparation for the impending scolding that Italia or Holy Rome or whoever it was would receive.

The snatch of wind dissolved back into thin air.

Austria felt like an idiot.

* * *

It took him an embarrassingly long time to find the note sitting conspicuously on the piano cover.

“Dearest Austria,

We (Italia and Hungary – H. Rome is completely innocent of our crimes) have decided that you are far too attached to your piano. It’s unhealthy, really, your affection for it borders on obsession. You two need some time apart.”

Austria tried to glare a hole into the tiny piece of paper.

“Do we plan to give it back? Nein, nope, nada.”

His heart sank. He’d never be able to outfight Hungary.

“Just kidding. I wouldn’t do that to you.” Someone, likely her, had drawn a heart beside those words. “We’ve come up with something fun instead! The two of us have put our heads together to leave a nice, fun trail of clues for you. At the end, you’ll find the missing key. Aaaalll the best!”

…This was going to be a long day, wasn’t it?

* * *

“Do you really know nothing about this?” asked Austria.

Holy Rome blinked. “I don’t,” he said. Then, when Austria sighed in response, Holy Rome reached out and took the note. “There’s something written behind.”

“This is your first clue.

I fly on fleet feet,  
Eternally crossing thresholds  
Where the river flows.

My music will spirit you to slumber,  
Lull you to your first deep sleep.  
And when your eyes close eternally  
In your second, I will be there  
To take your hand,  
And guide you to the depths.

Who am I?”

Holy Rome looked up at Austria. “What do you think?” he asked.

Something felt off. It was too simple – Austria knew how quickly Hungary’s mind worked, knew the kind of riddles that she could come up with.

But Austria remembered Italia’s involvement, and decided that she’d probably contributed this clue. Honestly – it was as if the two of them (and Holy Rome, on occasion) had nothing better to do. Every time he passed by, he’d see their heads together – they’d pause for a second to glance at him and giggle, and Austria would never learn what they were saying. And now they’d done it again, created a new joke that only they had been in on, that only they had known about.

His throat was oddly dry.

Austria swallowed. “The riddle’s answer is the winged messenger of the Greek gods, Hermes. He was a psychopomp. He brought souls to the underworld.”

“So, where should we go?”

They passed through room after room. Austria lived in a large place, high-ceilinged and white-walled – though it was populated with beautiful gold furniture, the laughter that Hungary and Italia always brought to the huge rooms was noticeably missing. Their vanished footsteps rang on the cold marble floor. Their absence seemed to echo throughout the house.

And Austria couldn’t quite place his finger on the cause of the strange ache in his chest.

* * *

They found the Greek vase.

There was a note underneath it. “Answer this before you read the next clue,” it said. “What is Hungary’s favourite place here?”

Austria thought about it, looked at Holy Rome, thought harder, and realised that he knew nothing at all.

“It’s the balcony on the second floor,” said Holy Rome. “The one that looks out on the garden.”

“Oh,” said Austria quietly.

He wondered if he should feel ashamed that he didn’t know.

* * *

The next clue led them to the armoury.

“What is Italia’s favourite colour?” the paper asked.

Austria stared at it. Something cold and unpleasant wriggled in his stomach. No one even asked each other about their favourite colours nowadays – they were adults, grown-ups, and the information was trivial and it wouldn’t even matter. Suddenly he remembered how young Italia was. He found himself wishing that she wouldn’t follow in his footsteps.

Somewhere along the line, sometime long ago, Austria’s childish smile had died on his lips.

“Her favourite colour is blue,” said Holy Rome, filling the silence. He opened his mouth; hesitated; blushed slightly. “It’s because blue is the colour of the sky, and the sea, and…” He coughed, and looked away. “And my eyes.” Then – “…But hers are prettier.”

Distantly, Austria remembered his own most-loved eyes, remembered the strong warm hands that had always caught him when he’d fallen. Back then he’d wanted to gaze into those eyes forever. Back then he’d wanted those hands to pull him into an embrace. Back then he’d been in love before he’d known what being in love meant.

For the longest time, he’d assumed that Holy Rome and Italia were friends, and nothing more.

Just where had he been looking, all this while?

* * *

It felt like the people in living in Austria’s house were familiar strangers.

Even answering basic questions about them was a struggle. What did Italia like to do in her free time? Austria hadn’t known that her skill as a painter went beyond defacing the portraits hanging on the walls. What was Hungary’s favourite flower? Austria hadn’t ever thought to give her one.

As they wandered the large, empty halls, Austria realised that he knew nothing about Italia and Hungary at all – he thought it over, slowly, hesitantly, as he walked through the house. All at once he understood why everything had happened this way. All at once he understood why he’d never opened his heart to the people who ate his food and slept under his roof.

Long ago, though it felt just like yesterday, his oldest, closest friendship had dissolved into bitterness and hate. He’d begged that person not to leave, his chest burning with a feeling that he hadn’t been able to name. He remembered their reply, clear as day, fresh and raw in the depths of his long memory. He remembered the anger in their voice – for the first time, it was directed at him. He remembered the tears in their eyes. They were tears that he had never seen before, and that he didn’t think he would ever see again.

“I hate you!” the boy he loved had shouted, many years ago.

And Austria had never been able to smile the same way since.

* * *

If Hungary had wanted to cheer him up, she had failed miserably.

But Austria didn’t think that was what she’d been attempting to do. Italia likely hadn’t known what this was about – but Hungary was shrewd, and Hungary was more observant than anyone gave her credit for. That, at least, was something that Austria knew about her.

By pulling him from his sanctuary by the piano, she was trying to push him towards the living, breathing people who walked through his hallways and filled the air with their warm breath.

“There’s so much you don't know about us,” she seemed to be saying. “Stop closing yourself off. Stop isolating yourself with your music. Come to us. Speak to us. We’re here. We want to spend more time with you.”

He took a shaky breath.

Had his heart healed enough, that it wouldn’t break?

* * *

They found a note tucked into the frame of a painting of the Alps.

“I am innocence.  
I am the sun that hangs before a white cloud,  
Because it cannot bear to say goodbye.  
I am the yolk in the egg  
That will one day turn into a dove.

I am forgotten.  
The night rolls in, the stars go out,  
And the red roses rot in the rain-soaked air –  
Their fragrance is death itself.  
My white heart turns slowly black.

But I am only forgotten.  
I linger in the pink dawn,  
In the words of children,  
In the dewdrops on wet grass,  
In the morning when the earth is fresh  
And new love sinks into the soil.”

Something ached in Austria’s chest.

He knew where they had to go.

* * *

The daisies nodded in the warm afternoon breeze.

Austria hadn’t wanted daisies in his garden – after all, daisies were weeds. But there was no getting rid of them, and he’d supposed they weren’t really an eyesore; besides, his gardener had managed to keep them away from the roses, and they hadn’t known what else to grow.

Daises for innocence, he thought. Daises, the flowers that blossomed in the daytime and hid their faces at night. Daisies, the flowers that would never be more loved than the red roses blooming wildly nearby.

He approached.

Hidden amongst the swaying white flowers, a small note peeked at the sky.

He picked it up.

“Do you remember the name of your first friend?” it whispered.

He did. He remembered that name. He remembered that name, even though he would never call it fondly again, never say it with love again. And there were so many other things that he remembered, so many memories that he clung to in his wildest dreams, in his most terrifying nightmares. For the longest time, he’d longed to touch his friend again, to take his hand and look into his eyes and say, “I’m sorry.”

It had hurt deeply to realise that they could never be friends again.

And now the people who were supposed to be his friends were people he knew nothing about. Austria thought about the questions that Hungary and Italia had asked; realised that he knew so much more about his first friend than he did about any of his new ones. What was that person’s favourite place in Austria’s old house? The garden, which Austria used to tidy up whenever his friend visited. What was that person’s favourite colour? Green, the colour of his lakes and rivers; the colour of his eyes. What did that person like to do in their free time? Practice archery, because he could never truly feel safe in this turbulent world. What was that person’s favourite flower?

The edelweiss, the flower of the Alps; the flower of both their countries.

Austria had fallen in love with Switzerland, years and years ago, and everything had shattered to pieces. Since then, he’d built walls around his heart; since then, he hadn’t let anyone else in –

And all at once Austria understood everything. The missing key had finally fallen into place.

“Do you remember the name of your first friend?” the paper whispered once more.

Austria met Hungary’s eyes.

“I do,” he said.

“I do.”

* * *

They watched Holy Rome and Italia weave between the red roses.

“Here’s your reward,” said Hungary; she handed the missing key to Austria, but he was barely listening to her. The two children were brimming with life, blooming with youthful innocence – but Austria knew what it was like to fall in love so young, and Austria knew what the whims of leaders could do to rip two nations apart. He’d experienced it himself – that was what had happened to the two of them, that was why Switzerland would never forgive him.

“Should I stop them?” he asked. He wondered if Hungary understood what he’d said.

Something warm settled on his fingers – he looked down. It was her hand.

“Don’t,” she said. Her eyes shone; her fingers tightened on his. “Please. Let them be happy. Let them have their childhood, before it’s too late.”

And though he couldn’t suppress the worry he felt watching Holy Rome and Italia, Austria couldn’t help but agree.

It was better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all.

“I’m – ” For some reason, the sound of his own voice was startling. “I’m free, tomorrow evening. We can all – we can all have dinner together. I’ll play the piano.”

Slowly, a smile spread across Hungary’s face. Austria looked into her eyes; they were a deep, deep green. They were a shade darker than Switzerland’s. But then, thought Austria, Hungary’s eyes were no less beautiful.

“That’d be great,” she replied. She tilted her head, and said:

“I think you’ve found what you’ve been missing all along.”

* * *

And, years later, Austria kissed Hungary for the first time.


End file.
